The sun was already painting your shoulders gold as you stepped out onto the tiled path, the smell of coconut sunscreen, ocean breeze, and overripe mango swirling in the air. The resort was alive with soft chatter, clinking glasses, the occasional splash from the pool—but you barely heard it.

Because he was beside you.

John “Soap” MacTavish, in swim trunks, flip-flops, and sunglasses that sat crooked on his nose because he refused to admit they were a size too big. His mohawk had dried into unruly tufts from your earlier dip in the sea, and he looked equal parts dangerous and utterly ridiculous as he carried both your towels over one shoulder and a tote bag he swore was “not his bloody bag” in the other.

“Don’t forget—yer the one who packed the thirty-seven different sunscreens,” he muttered, glancing into the bag as you both neared the pool. “No’ me. I’d have brought one and called it good.”

“That one was for your scalp,” you teased, flashing him a grin as you slipped off your sandals.

He stopped dead as you started peeling off your cover-up. One shoulder first. Then the other. And then all at once, it fell to your ankles, and you stood there in that bikini—the one you’d tried on three times before buying, the one you’d absolutely caught him staring at in the mirror back home.

You didn’t even look at him. Not right away. But you felt it.

The eyes.

Not just his. A few others from across the pool. A couple in the cabanas. The bartender who nearly over-poured someone’s mojito.

John noticed too.

He made a noise—a sharp little tch through his teeth—and stepped just a little closer, looping an arm casually (not casually at all) around your waist.

“Well then,” he muttered low beside your ear, lips brushing just close enough to your skin to send a ripple down your spine. “Guess I should be flattered people have good taste… or pissed they’re dumb enough to stare when I’m standin’ right here.”

You turned to him, raising a brow, utterly unbothered. “What are you gonna do, Johnny? Scowl at every tourist with functioning eyesight?”

“Nah.” He dropped the towels on a chair with one hand and slapped your ass with the other, fast and sharp and grinning. “Just gonna make sure they know who you’re goin’ home with.”

You let out a loud laugh, swatting at him as he slid past you toward the edge of the pool.

“And that’s your plan?”

He looked over his shoulder, already waist-deep in the water. “That, and cannonballin’ right next to every bastard that even thinks about flirtin’ with you.”

And then he launched himself into the water with a splash loud enough to drench the nearest sunbathers—who may or may not have been the original offenders.